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Adventures in Time (The American Civil War)

JackDallas

Senator
Supporting Member
Excerpt from Chapter 11

LINCOLN

April 1865


I arrived at Ford's Theatre on Tenth Street, just above ‘E’, dressed in Washington’s finest new clothes. I did not ask the cost of the new suit I was wearing for fear that the news would have stunned me. I was shown to my seat which was about three quarters of the way back from the stage. I had been informed by the newspaper that General and Mrs. Grant were expected to accompany the President for the evening, but as yet I had seen neither. The play was already in progress when Lincoln arrived, and the action on stage stopped while the audience stood up and applauded.

The play however was not as exciting as the event itself. The dialogue seemed monotonous to me and I struggled to pay proper attention. Mrs. Montchessington: “Augusta dear, to your room.” Augusta: “Yes Ma, the nasty beast.” Mrs. Montchessington: “I am aware, Mister Trenchard, that you are not used to the manners of good society.” Asa Trenchard: “Don't know the manners of good society, eh? Well I guess I know enough to turn you inside out, you sockdoligizing old man-trap”…….


Suddenly there was the sharp sound of a pistol being discharged. Screams, and the sounds of people scuffling, arose from the Presidential Box and a man jumped over the front of it. It appeared that the man caught his foot in the flag draping around the box and he crashed to the floor of the stage. He shouted something which I could not make out and then hobbled off stage and disappeared.

Several soldiers were running up the side stairs that led to the Presidential Box. There was chaos in the theatre as people tried to assess what had happened. Some women fainted and many were bent down trying to hide themselves between the seats in fear that there might be more shooting. I vaulted over several seats and their occupants as well, and landed in the aisle. I then ran up the side stairs, clearing two or three steps at a time. There was along narrow corridor that took one to the President's Box.

The soldiers were bringing him out into the corridor and struggling somewhat because of Lincoln's long body. The president was sagging in the middle and it appeared that those carrying him might lose their grips and drop him. "Lend a hand here, Sir," one of them shouted at me and I immediately did what he said. I grabbed the wounded man at his waist and lifted him up. Together we managed to get him down the stairs and out of the theatre. A man directed us to the Boarding House across Tenth Street and we carried Lincoln into a back room and placed him on the bed there. It being a very short bed, we had to place the president diagonally across it due to his great height. Doctors came and began to tend to him. They stripped him of his clothes and I then noticed that his arms were much larger, and more muscular, than I would have expected them to be, given the slight appearance of his frame. I was hustled out of the room along with several others, including some of the soldiers, so the doctors could have more room to work on the dying man.

I knew it was futile. I knew he was dead and that nothing could be done. The faces of everyone in that room told me they knew as well. I walked down 10th Street a couple of doors and sat down on the stoop. My mind was blank, just a dull lifeless blank. It was Incredible, what I had just witnessed. This man who had endured so much, had taken so much of the country's pain on himself, cut down now for no good reason. I wanted to hate someone but I didn't know who to hate. I also knew in my own mind that it was a Southerner who had killed the president. I just knew it had to be, but whoever he was, he hardly did the South a good deed, if that had been his intention. I wanted to weep but I could not. Women would do enough weeping over this, in the days and weeks to follow.

The moment was, for me, too deep for tears. Sufficient for this day was the knowledge that the president was dead. ‘Lincoln was dead’. It would take some time for my mind and my heart to fully accept it. I heard my name being called. It was Charles White from the newspaper, looking for me.


“What news of the president, Jack?” He asked me. “He's dead Charles,” I said. “The President is dead.” “But the doctors are still with him. I was told he may still be alive,” Charles said, incredulously. "No, he's dead. I saw his eyes."


Charles stared at me in disbelief but seemed to accept my analysis of the situation. “Get back to the newspaper and let them know will you?” I told him.”
”Of course Jack, I will. Are you okay?” He looked at me with a frightful stare. “Your suit is ruined, Jack,” he said, pointing to the front of my new clothes.

I looked down at my chest. I was covered with blood, Abraham Lincoln’s blood. I had the blood of the President all over the new suit I would never wear again. I supposed it was better than if I had ruined my good field jacket. “I'm okay,” I said. “I'll be along shortly.”

Abraham Lincoln died at 7:22 the next morning.


All Is Quiet Along The Potomac Tonight

All is quiet along the Potomac tonight
The lamps are turned and dimmed
Muffled voices offer up
A somber, silent hymn

Washington lies numbed and still
"Neath gentle April rain



The river slows to pay respect
And holds the nation's pain

Across the water, near yet far
Candles faintly glow
Old Virginia softly mourns
Her noble fallen foe

"Lincoln's dead" The words descend
on unbelieving ears
And now the mighty force is stilled
That kept us, through the years

The "ages" now must claim his soul
The great Emancipator, now asleep
And God alone can fill the void
That makes a nation weep

And quiet Potomac rolls along
Relentless, to the sea
Dividing peoples, now rejoined
The Union, One and Free

And we are coming Father Abraham
To bid our last farewell
What course is set, what destiny
Now only God can tell
But when a hundred years have passed


His spirit yet shall live
And millions freed will share the dream
And hope he sought to give





Mourning soon turned to cries for revenge. The assassin, John Wilkes Booth, was quickly found and killed, resisting arrest, according to the army. Others were hanged for taking part in the conspiracy to kill the president. It was small consolation however. The country would suffer his loss for generations.


John Sinclair Dallas
Washington
April 15, 1865
 

JackDallas

Senator
Supporting Member
Excerpt from Chapter 11

LINCOLN

April 1865


I arrived at Ford's Theatre on Tenth Street, just above ‘E’, dressed in Washington’s finest new clothes. I did not ask the cost of the new suit I was wearing for fear that the news would have stunned me. I was shown to my seat which was about three quarters of the way back from the stage. I had been informed by the newspaper that General and Mrs. Grant were expected to accompany the President for the evening, but as yet I had seen neither. The play was already in progress when Lincoln arrived, and the action on stage stopped while the audience stood up and applauded.

The play however was not as exciting as the event itself. The dialogue seemed monotonous to me and I struggled to pay proper attention. Mrs. Montchessington: “Augusta dear, to your room.” Augusta: “Yes Ma, the nasty beast.” Mrs. Montchessington: “I am aware, Mister Trenchard, that you are not used to the manners of good society.” Asa Trenchard: “Don't know the manners of good society, eh? Well I guess I know enough to turn you inside out, you sockdoligizing old man-trap”…….


Suddenly there was the sharp sound of a pistol being discharged. Screams, and the sounds of people scuffling, arose from the Presidential Box and a man jumped over the front of it. It appeared that the man caught his foot in the flag draping around the box and he crashed to the floor of the stage. He shouted something which I could not make out and then hobbled off stage and disappeared.

Several soldiers were running up the side stairs that led to the Presidential Box. There was chaos in the theatre as people tried to assess what had happened. Some women fainted and many were bent down trying to hide themselves between the seats in fear that there might be more shooting. I vaulted over several seats and their occupants as well, and landed in the aisle. I then ran up the side stairs, clearing two or three steps at a time. There was along narrow corridor that took one to the President's Box.

The soldiers were bringing him out into the corridor and struggling somewhat because of Lincoln's long body. The president was sagging in the middle and it appeared that those carrying him might lose their grips and drop him. "Lend a hand here, Sir," one of them shouted at me and I immediately did what he said. I grabbed the wounded man at his waist and lifted him up. Together we managed to get him down the stairs and out of the theatre. A man directed us to the Boarding House across Tenth Street and we carried Lincoln into a back room and placed him on the bed there. It being a very short bed, we had to place the president diagonally across it due to his great height. Doctors came and began to tend to him. They stripped him of his clothes and I then noticed that his arms were much larger, and more muscular, than I would have expected them to be, given the slight appearance of his frame. I was hustled out of the room along with several others, including some of the soldiers, so the doctors could have more room to work on the dying man.

I knew it was futile. I knew he was dead and that nothing could be done. The faces of everyone in that room told me they knew as well. I walked down 10th Street a couple of doors and sat down on the stoop. My mind was blank, just a dull lifeless blank. It was Incredible, what I had just witnessed. This man who had endured so much, had taken so much of the country's pain on himself, cut down now for no good reason. I wanted to hate someone but I didn't know who to hate. I also knew in my own mind that it was a Southerner who had killed the president. I just knew it had to be, but whoever he was, he hardly did the South a good deed, if that had been his intention. I wanted to weep but I could not. Women would do enough weeping over this, in the days and weeks to follow.

The moment was, for me, too deep for tears. Sufficient for this day was the knowledge that the president was dead. ‘Lincoln was dead’. It would take some time for my mind and my heart to fully accept it. I heard my name being called. It was Charles White from the newspaper, looking for me.


“What news of the president, Jack?” He asked me. “He's dead Charles,” I said. “The President is dead.” “But the doctors are still with him. I was told he may still be alive,” Charles said, incredulously. "No, he's dead. I saw his eyes."


Charles stared at me in disbelief but seemed to accept my analysis of the situation. “Get back to the newspaper and let them know will you?” I told him.”
”Of course Jack, I will. Are you okay?” He looked at me with a frightful stare. “Your suit is ruined, Jack,” he said, pointing to the front of my new clothes.

I looked down at my chest. I was covered with blood, Abraham Lincoln’s blood. I had the blood of the President all over the new suit I would never wear again. I supposed it was better than if I had ruined my good field jacket. “I'm okay,” I said. “I'll be along shortly.”

Abraham Lincoln died at 7:22 the next morning.


All Is Quiet Along The Potomac Tonight

All is quiet along the Potomac tonight
The lamps are turned and dimmed
Muffled voices offer up
A somber, silent hymn

Washington lies numbed and still
"Neath gentle April rain



The river slows to pay respect
And holds the nation's pain

Across the water, near yet far
Candles faintly glow
Old Virginia softly mourns
Her noble fallen foe

"Lincoln's dead" The words descend
on unbelieving ears
And now the mighty force is stilled
That kept us, through the years

The "ages" now must claim his soul
The great Emancipator, now asleep
And God alone can fill the void
That makes a nation weep

And quiet Potomac rolls along
Relentless, to the sea
Dividing peoples, now rejoined
The Union, One and Free

And we are coming Father Abraham
To bid our last farewell
What course is set, what destiny
Now only God can tell
But when a hundred years have passed


His spirit yet shall live
And millions freed will share the dream
And hope he sought to give





Mourning soon turned to cries for revenge. The assassin, John Wilkes Booth, was quickly found and killed, resisting arrest, according to the army. Others were hanged for taking part in the conspiracy to kill the president. It was small consolation however. The country would suffer his loss for generations.


John Sinclair Dallas
Washington
April 15, 1865
Note: I tried to post the entire chapter but the forum only allows just so many words in a post so I could only post this final excerpt.
 
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